


talk some sense to me

by sparkycap



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:01:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7498677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkycap/pseuds/sparkycap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carwood gives himself too much responsibility, nurses an ever-growing aversion to loud noises, and doesn't know the meaning of self-care. Fortunately, Ron is both quiet and stubborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	talk some sense to me

Carwood spends most weeknights at the top of the stairs with headphones over his ears. If he sits in the corner just right, leaned up against the wall, he can see downstairs through the slats of the railing and no one can see him.

His mother and his stepfather have been screaming bloody murder in the vague direction of each other for going on two hours now. It wasn’t an unheard of event when they first got married, and five years later the frequency is creeping closer and closer to every day of the week and twice on Sunday.

His stepfather is something of a violent man. Just because he’s never aimed that violence in the direction of Carwood’s mother or brother _yet_ doesn’t mean Carwood can stop keeping an eye out, just to be sure. On the good nights, he can almost zone out and only jump at the extra loud and abrupt yells. On the bad nights he spends the whole time tense, starting at every small move, ready to take the stairs down two at a time.

 

Tonight is a bad night. No one gets hurt, and his mother doesn’t lose her voice shouting herself hoarse, and no one punches a hole in the living room wall, so it isn’t the worst. But the fight has been escalating for hours instead of staying level at eardrum-shattering rage, and so Carwood has been on edge waiting for something to go wrong.

He sits on the top step and circles his hand around his opposite wrist and grips tight with his fingernails until it catches his attention, until the noise fades into the background, until the _sudden-grating-loud_ is made bearable by the consistent, tangible counterpoint of his stinging skin. It happens like this every time—the raw, jarred feeling flaring up in his chest and his throat like a physical thing, like something he can’t breathe around—and every time he forces himself to keep watch anyway.

It’s almost a relief when a glass breaks downstairs.

There’s a thump, and a curse, and an excuse for Carwood to jolt abruptly to his feet. He yanks his headphones down as he goes, barking, “ _Hey_!”

Both adults look up at him guiltily. It never used to work like that before, them actually listening to them. He could go down screaming his head off and physically shoving at them and they wouldn’t even notice, too wrapped up in each other.

Now it gives them pause. Maybe it’s because he’s gotten a lot of practice corralling loud and rambunctious people in the past few years, what with the sort of friends he’s acquired since he hit high school, but it’s more likely because of last year’s growth spurt—the easy, near automatic way his voice drops low and deep and commanding, the new breadth to his shoulders, the extra few inches that bring him level with his stepfather.

“Stop. Clean it up or get out,” Carwood says, an implied threat that he can actually back up, now. Which is maybe why his stepfather throws up his hands, spits at the ground, and storms out the door.

Carwood takes a breath, pressing his hand hard to the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. The sudden silence is almost blissful, if not for the lingering tension.

He makes his way downstairs, grabbing the broom and dustpan out of the hall closet. In the kitchen, his mother looks at him tearfully. “Carwood, you know you shouldn’t do that.”

“I know, Mama,” he says dutifully. He knows nothing of the sort, but he stopped arguing with her four years ago. She keeps watching him, and he musters a smile that’s halfway to a grimace. “You should go rest, I’ll clean this up.”

“Where’s your brother?” She asks, a bit of worry creeping into her expression.

“In his room, playing. Probably asleep by now,” Carwood assures her. He has a well-practiced system, at this point, to give his little brother some peace. All the area rugs that used to be on the floor, the blankets that used to be packed away in closets or folded over couches, are hung now on his wall to muffle the sound. Extra towels shoved under the crack in his door, headphones plugged into his video games, and the kid is set for hours. His mother doesn’t move to leave. Carwood repeats, “Go on, Mama. I’ll take care of this.”

“I know you will,” she says, something sad about her smile Carwood doesn’t quite understand. He leans down so she can place a hand on his cheek, lets her stroke a thumb across his scar and murmur, “My sweet boy.”

He gives her the best smile he can and steps aside to let her leave.

When he’s alone, he closes his eyes for a long moment, savoring the silence. He lets out a breath. Then he drops to one knee and starts sweeping up the broken glass.

And before, that would have been the end of it. Carwood would clean up, lock up, and go to sleep with his door cracked open so he’d hear if his stepfather came home in the middle of the night. Before, he’d crawl under his sheet (his comforter is currently contributing to his little brother’s soundproofing) in his pitch black room and close his eyes, let the dark and the quiet and the lack of input from any of his senses lull him into relaxation and loosen the tight knot wound in his chest.

Before. Now, he just deliberates for a few moments before he pulls out his phone.

He shuts the light in the kitchen and finds himself on the floor. The cool tile is comfortable in the humid summer air, and curling into the corner where the cabinets meet is comforting in ways he won’t put words to, with walls on all three sides and the counter in front of him too high to see over from the ground. It’s like being alone in more than just the room, like there’s nothing out there to worry about as long as he can’t see any of it—a luxury he only allows himself this time of night, when everyone else is asleep or headed there.

Everyone except the reason he’s listening to the phone ring in his ear, that is. Someone picks up on the third ring.

“Carwood,” he says, warm and soft and _quiet_.

And Carwood breathes, the knot in his chest loosening already. “Hey.”

“Bad night?” Ron asks.

Carwood has just enough energy to feign affront at the assumption. “That’s not the only reason I call you.”

“I know,” Ron agrees, amused. “But it’s late.”

“Not too late, I hope,” Carwood says, tipping his head back against the cabinets and settling in.

Ron, who never seems to actually sleep, just lets out a quiet laugh. “Never.”

“What are you doing?” Carwood asks. “Just now, I mean.”

“Sitting on the roof,” Ron says promptly, like that’s not a strange answer to that question at eleven pm. “Most people say it’s hard to learn a language by yourself, but it turns out when it’s a dead language it’s not all that much of a problem.”

Carwood smiles. Studying Latin on a roof at eleven pm. It gets stranger. “Wasn’t it raining?”

“It’s not anymore,” Ron says, bemused.

“Right,” Carwood says. “And I guess your roof immediately dried and stopped being slippery.”

“Audentes fortuna iuvat,” Ron says, and Carwood can hear the smile in his voice. He doesn’t ask what it means. Instead he tucks it away in the back of his mind to look up later, the way some people reserve gifts and desserts and other things to be savored. And instead of explaining, Ron says, in the same warm and quiet tone, “Carwood.”

“Yes?” He covers his smile with his hand before he realizes no one is there to see it, drapes his arm across his folded knees instead and smiles at the ceiling. He’s never been so glad that most people call him by a nickname. There’s something about the way Ron says his name, the fact that he does at all and the particular sound of it, that Carwood will never get tired of hearing.

“Please let me come get you.”

Carwood physically bites down on the _yes, please_ at the tip of his tongue. He hesitates. “It’s late.”

“It’s Saturday,” Ron counters. “We won’t go far.”

And really, Carwood is sixteen and worn out and stupid in love with the boy on the other end of the line. There’s only so much he can be expected to deny himself. “Okay. All right, fine.”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Ron says dryly.

And if he was speaking to anyone else, Carwood would be worried they were actually offended. As it is, he says, “I’ll see you soon?”

“Five minutes,” Ron confirms. “Ten at the most. You realize I can stay on the line while I drive?”

“At the speed you go? You don’t need any distractions,” Carwood says, only half-teasing. “And I gotta make sure my brother’s in bed.”

“Ten minutes, then,” Ron says.

“Ten minutes,” Carwood repeats, like a promise.

He heads up the stairs when he hangs up. He stops at his mother’s door, holding his breath, listening for the quiet, even breaths that mean she’s sleeping peacefully. Satisfied to hear them, he moves on. Nine minutes.

His little brother is, as Carwood suspected, passed out across the beanbag on his floor with his game still in his hands, headphones still in his ears. Carwood removes them both gently and sets them aside, then gathers his brother into his arms and carries him to bed. He doesn’t stir, well used to the routine, remaining peacefully asleep while Carwood tucks the blanket around him and strokes a quick, affectionate hand across his forehead.

Six minutes. Carwood steps into his room at the end of the hall, switching out his tank top for something better suited to the slight chill of the night. He wastes two minutes looking for real pants before he decides that he’s too tired for anything other than the gray sweatpants he’s already wearing. Too drained and overwhelmed for anything other than sweats and a soft old tee, actually, which is why he slips his keys and his phone into his shoes and carries them in hand down the stairs to the door.

Three minutes. He sees Ron’s headlights shine through the front window and shuts the door behind him as softly as he can, sees Ron doing the same a little ways down the long driveway.

Ron is a dark silhouette under the canopy of trees, backlit by the headlights to his right, barefoot and burrowed into a black hoodie. Moonlight glints off his watch and his lighter when he raises his hands to his face, left hand cupped around the flame as he ducks his head and lights the cigarette caught between his lips.

Carwood walks over, drops his shoes to the ground, and plucks the cigarette out of Ron’s mouth. Ron lifts his head, eyebrows rising minutely, surprise and then concern flitting lightning-quick across his features before his expression goes carefully blank. Carwood inhales, daring Ron to say something, and lets out an exhale that’s two parts smoke and one part relief when he doesn’t. He passes it back.

Ron tucks it back between his lips and reaches out for Carwood, pulling him in by the arms. Carwood leans into him, and the last bit of tension dissolves in his gut. Ron slides a hand up to grip the back of his neck and asks, “Long day?”

“Not bad,” Carwood says, words somewhat belied by the way he slips down the back of the car to half-sit on the trunk and lean his head against Ron’s shoulder. He tilts his face up to press a kiss to the hinge of Ron’s jaw. “Yours?”

Ron shakes his head, sliding his cigarette between two fingers and exhaling a mouthful of smoke before getting his free hand on Carwood’s face to coax him into a real kiss. He hums when they separate, head still ducked to the side to keep their noses pressed together, and murmurs, “Not bad. Better now.”

Carwood steals another kiss just for that, and then steals the cigarette out of Ron’s hand and helps himself to another drag. They pass it back and forth until it’s finished, quiet through to the moment Ron bends to snuff it out in the dirt.

Then he says, “Let’s go somewhere else.”

“Not far,” Carwood reminds him, glancing around for approaching headlights or the sound of an engine. Another expression flits across Ron’s face, too small and quick for Carwood to read, before he nods.

When they get into the car, Ron shifts into drive and holds down the break and doesn’t move. Instead he rests his left hand on the steering wheel a moment, drumming his fingers against the leather, and then reaches across the seat and takes Carwood’s hand. Carwood waits patiently.

Finally, Ron asks, “You want to talk about it?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” Carwood says.

Ron doesn’t respond, just swings the car around and pulls out of the driveway. They drive in silence for a few long moments until Ron says abruptly, “You know I can tell. When it’s a bad day.”

“Sorry,” Carwood says. He leans his shoulder into the window and looks away, sighing. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—"

“That’s not what I meant,” Ron interrupts. “Christ, Carwood, that’s not—what I meant is you should _talk_ to me, because I already know. And I want—well, fuck.”

“What?” Carwood asks uncertainly. Ron is staring hard out the windshield, frowning, jaw clenched tight. Carwood has seen him angry like this, but never with him.

“You know how stubborn you are, right? You know it’s already a goddamn miracle that you’ll call me when you feel bad, even if you won’t talk about it? And now you’re apologizing for that, too,” Ron says, frustrated.

“So you’re _mad_ at me for it?” Carwood asks incredulously, pulling away further.

Ron glances over, surprised, and tightens his grip around Carwood’s hand. “No. No, I’m mad at myself for saying something that fucking stupid. For saying something that—something that might make you not call me, next time.”

Carwood blinks. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then shifts back toward Ron. Finally, he says, “I’ll call you.”

“I’ll want you to,” Ron says simply, eyes steady on the road in front of him as he takes a left, looping back around toward the house. He lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to Carwood’s knuckles. Carwood watches and tries to make sense of that promise.

And it _is_ a promise. Coming from Ron, who is blunt and truthful sometimes to a fault and likely doesn’t know the meaning of the word platitude, it can’t be anything else.

Ron pulls over at the end of the road, an empty cul-de-sac awaiting construction, surrounded by nothing but dirt and woods. They can almost see the porch light of Carwood’s house through the stretch of trees, would definitely be able to see the headlights of any car heading toward it. Carwood gives Ron’s hand a grateful squeeze, well aware he’s chosen this spot on purpose.

It’s not exactly that Carwood _needs_ to be home if his stepfather goes back, but it _is_ better for everyone.

The fighting will start again, probably louder, and his kid brother will wake up, probably scared and confused, and if more things break there won’t be anyone around to clean it up. And if his brother wanders into broken glass or trips down the stairs or any number of things kids do, there won’t be anyone around to clean _him_ up, at least not until the adults surface from their anger long enough to notice.

It’s better for everyone.

And Ron knows all of this. Which is why he parked the car here. Which is why Carwood sighs and says, “He broke another glass. I swear, we’re going to run out of them soon.”

“Did he hurt anyone?” Ron asks, thumb starting to rub back and forth across Carwood’s hand. He shakes his head. Ron’s lips quirk up, wry. “Did you hurt him?”

“I kicked him out with words only,” Carwood says dryly.

“Shame,” Ron says. “Your mother?”

“She’s okay. Went right to sleep after,” Carwood says. This time he clocks the micro expression flicking across Ron’s face as anger. He frowns. “Ron…”

“No, that’s nice for her,” Ron says, looking away. “It’s nice she has the luxury.”

“Don’t be angry with her,” Carwood tells him.

Ron bites his lip and shakes his head before looking back to Carwood. “I think someone should be.”

“It’s not your job.”

“Well, yeah, and it’s not your job to babysit your mother and her husband all afternoon, but here we are.”

“Yes, it is,” Carwood disagrees. “Who else is gonna do it, my kid brother? If she’s not gonna leave him—"

“Maybe she should leave him,” Ron says, impassive. Carwood falls silent. She should, god, she should, wouldn’t that be something. But she won’t, and maybe that’s why his chest feels so tight. Ron makes a face, shaking his head again. “I’m just saying, you’re allowed to be angry with her. With both of them.”

And then maybe _that’s_ why his chest constricts so hard it’s like he can’t breathe sometimes. “I’m not,” he says anyway.

“I am,” Ron says.

“Maybe that’ll have to be enough for right now,” Carwood says, and Ron flashes him a smile like lightning in the dark.

Then he sits up abruptly, lets go of Carwood’s hand, and gets out of the car. He makes his way around to the passenger side and tugs Carwood out too, leading him into the backseat. Carwood is rewarded with another quick grin for following.

And then he’s rewarded with Ron, one hand sliding around his shoulders, the other cradling his jaw, pulling him into a kiss.

Then he draws back and does it again. Once, twice. A third time, and Carwood’s lips part on a soft sigh, his hand coming up to smooth over Ron’s chest. Ron pulls him closer, insistent, and Carwood presses into him. Their mouths crushed together almost harshly. Fingers wrapped around Ron’s wrist, the feel of his soft-steady pulse, the taste of nicotine and smoke. He gasps between one kiss and the next, and for the first time all night the breath seems to reach his lungs, the space beneath his ribs full with something warmer and quieter than anger.

It’s unrelenting and grounding, like the sharp-sting pain of Carwood’s nails digging into his forearm to distract him. A focal point. Ron’s mouth, warm and wet and pleasant, is an infinitely better center than crescent indents in his skin until it hurts.

He savors the ease of his breath and the quiet in his head, and loses the words _thank you_ somewhere between their lips.

“Come here,” Ron murmurs, just barely pulling back. His eyes are dark, soft and intent on Carwood, and instead of moving anywhere he ducks in to kiss him one more time. Then he pulls back again, skating a thumb across Carwood’s bottom lip, and repeats, “Come here.”

He settles back into the corner of the car, one foot dropping to the floor and the other stretching across the seat, and guides Carwood between his legs. Carwood hesitates there, one knee on the seat and hovering. Ron just smooths a hand down his back and mouths up the line of his throat, sucking a kiss to the underside of his jaw as he slips his hand up underneath Carwood’s t-shirt.

And Carwood shudders, letting out a quiet sound and curling a hand around Ron’s shoulder, falling sideways into his lap without entirely meaning to.

“Hello,” Ron says, quiet and amused, their faces inches apart. Carwood drops his head to the crook of Ron’s neck, biting lightly in reproach or recompense. Ron simply wraps his arms around him and rubs his back until he settles into the curve of Ron’s body.

It’s not the most comfortable position. He’s wedged into the small space between Ron’s body and the seatback, their legs tangled strangely together. There’s a seatbelt digging into Ron’s hip.

But it’s dark, and soft where he pillows his head against Ron’s sweatshirt. The hand caught between their bodies is curled in the fabric at Ron’s waist, the other open and relaxed against his opposite shoulder. The only sound is their whisper-quiet breathing, and nothing is sudden or jarring or overwhelming to the senses.

It’s a small, silent place, trust and love and safety here with him like a physical thing—like something he can hold, like something that can hold him back, like something he can feel in the soft-steady beat of Ron’s pulse against his lips.

Carwood falls asleep.

 

When he wakes, there are fingers running lightly through his hair and a slowly lightening sky visible through the window. The boy underneath him has held him tight for hours, awake and keeping watch on a house that isn’t his. Carwood is informed in a whisper that there’s been no one around for miles.

The insects that buzz through the night are silent, and they can’t hear the highway from here. The sun rises, steady and pale over the treetops.

Even the birds are quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from I Found by Amber Run.  
> And if anyone's curious and hasn't looked it up yet, the Latin translation is 'fortune favors the bold.' Which, let's be real, is probably Ron's life motto. It's probably tattooed somewhere on his body. I'm probably going to have to write that fic now.


End file.
